Portrait
by limitedvocab
Summary: A short oneshot. Tryan. A picture is worth a thousand words. That's all I can say.


**Portrait**

Soft coughs could be heard from the art studio followed by a loud clatter of fallen objects against the wooden floor.

Slender fingers picked up the fallen brushes and pellet. Wiping his hands dry, Ryan Evans studied the portrait from every angle before he applied a pale shade of raw umber on the portrait.

Clear blue eyes glowed with love and warmth while he applied layers of paint. Ryan Evans loved to paint as much as he loved to dance and sing.

The joy of painting could never be clearly expressed in words. It was different from all those vigorous dances and slow ballads. There was no need for an audience. All he needed was a clean canvas, brushes and some paints to transfer his thoughts on to the paper.

There was no need for any rehearsal or preparations.

Just draw and paint what his heart desired. Let his heart and soul guide him to the slow process of completing the portrait. He would paint what the eyes of his heart see.

There was no need to hide his true feelings behind a façade.

Through his paintings, he could be the real Ryan Evans. Every colour represented an emotion, a whisper of his true identity. Every line, bold and soft, represented the feelings he harboured for the man in the portrait.

If he could not express his love with words or songs, he would express them through colours and lines. Let them speak for their master.

With steady hands he painted the outline of the eyes.

How he loved those eyes. Those blue-grey eyes that sparkled with hope and life had long captivated his heart.

Slowly, he lowered his brush. Tears stung his eyes.

How he longed to be noticed by those eyes. How he wished at times he was that pretty girl, capturing the eyes of his beloved. He wanted to be the one under his loving gaze. He wanted to be the one to clear the confusion and grief away from those eyes.

But that was impossible.

Tears trickled down the porcelain fair cheek, wetting the pellet.

He raised his head, inhaling sharply as he wiped those tears away. All that was left was those uncoloured irises.

He lifted his brush and continued painting.

All would come to an end.

After the eyes, he could finally sigh in relief.

It would be over.

* * *

Troy Bolton rapped his knuckles against the door, standing there for a few seconds before he entered the art studio. He was in no mood to play games with Ryan Evans. He did not want to go through another long lecture with Mrs Darbus for being late.

Seeing the blond resting on the bench near the window, Troy moved slowly toward him. He did not want to disturb the tired boy. Despite the raging anger within him, his eyes softened at the sight of the boy.

He could never bring himself to hate the boy. He just could not.

He was quite fond of him. Fond would be an understatement.

Troy would surreptitiously study the blond from afar. His eyes would linger a moment longer on the boy than he would on his girl. There was this indescribable feeling when he gazed at the boy.

It was a feeling unlike any other.

It was beautiful and suffocating.

Halting in midstride, he turned his attention to Ryan's work, eyes widened with surprise. It was a portrait of him.

An unfinished portrait of him.

The eyes were not coloured.

He studied the portrait. Words could not describe the portrait. It was beautiful. The feeling exuded by the portrait was beautiful. He could feel the love of the artist from those gentle strokes and pale colours.

And yet, there was a bitter feeling to it.

Pulling his eyes away from the painting, it became clear to Troy that Ryan was in love with him.

He gazed at the sleeping figure, his lips dry.

Placing his hands on the boy's shoulder, he tried waking the boy.

"Wake up Ryan. We're late."

Unresponsive toward his call, Troy shook the boy harder. Again the boy did not stir from his slumber.

"Please Ryan…Please wake up…" Troy begged, tears trickling down his face.

"I still have something to say to you."

'_The tragedy of life is not that it ends so soon, but that we wait so long to begin it.'_

_Author Unknown_

* * *

**Author**: ........


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